


Northbound

by sagiow



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Introspection, Post-Season/Series 02, Regret, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-27 00:07:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14413401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow
Summary: Everything else could wait.





	Northbound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/gifts).



> A little something for middlemarch in this birthday season of hers ;)

The scenery spun by, shapes barely distinguishable in the darkness, and Jedediah Foster watched it pass, as in a daze. The day’s events had yet to make their mark, but he kept them at bay: tonight, he had one more important thing to deal with than the utter falling apart with his family, the complete collapse of whatever still held them together. Mary. He had to get to Mary.

How he had managed to get aboard without a dime, he could not recall. Yet here he was, sitting in a comfortable cabin, speeding north as the evening grew; his body growing limp from the exhaustion of travel and rhythmic motion of the wagon on the tracks, but his mind racing on, one mantra repeating endlessly: _please still be alive. Please still be alive._

He took out the much-cherished drawing from his bag, carefully smoothing the creases and wrinkles, and stared at it. In that moment, the world outside vanished, the train's roar dimmed, time stood still: all he saw was her calm beauty, floating from the white page, smiling peacefully. Was she still at peace? Did she still smile? Would she smile still at his arrival? _Please still be alive._

This ghost haunted him, as she had since her departure, since Lisette had handed him the picture the next day. This serene Mary he doubted still existed, and would perhaps vanish before he could travel to Boston, or so he told himself these past weeks as he looked for excuses to stay away. As long as he had remained in Alexandria, he had lived with the regret of what could have been: their blossoming courtship, the growing affection between them, rekindled by her illness, only to be forcefully terminated by her exile and impending end. Regret was a heavy companion, but with distance and other occupation, he managed it somehow, never once resorting to the comfort of the needle, as he had feared. Every day the ghost grew fainter, the memory of her dimmed, and other preoccupations and prospects drove her further away. Every morning brought the possibility of a letter or telegram telling them her pain was passed, and some small part of him almost hoped to receive it, and let that page be turned once and for all, that chapter finished before it even began.

But the letter had never come, events had unraveled, and friends had provided the encouragement needed to put an end to the excuses and make that dreaded trip, and be confronted to her fate. And his, for he knew it now to be linked with hers, whatever it may be. He feared what awaited him, and his guilt-ridden mind conjured images of her body frail and wasted from her ordeal, her broken spirit barely twinkling through bright, fevered eyes. A ghost, indeed.

Regret at what could have been left him, and was replaced by remorse of what should have been. He remembered the dock: the curls clinging to her damp forehead, the darkness that rimmed her eyes, the shivers despite the heavy blanket: he should have brought her comfort. The confused mind, drifting so far away, already being ferried to the Underworld: he should have steered her back to herself, to him. The hand that had barely any strength to hold his, the pulse faint in her wrist: he never should have let it go. But he had. He had failed her.

Rationally, he knew that there was not much to be done that fateful night: defying orders to either steal her away somehow or jump ship to accompany her would have ended his military career, and ruined their good names. However, he could have done more through the proper channels as early as the next morning, yet he did not. Instead, he buried himself in the old comforts of work, science, and, despite his better judgement, the company of a former mistress. Thankfully, they had not revived their past affair, but had still managed to grow close enough that he was now wrecked with guilt. That he had just as much as entertained the possibility, while Mary was fighting for her life, now made him sick with disgust.

So there he was, racing through war-torn country, daring to hope for solace and forgiveness from the woman he had cravenly abandoned to a death sentence while he could not even bring himself to write a single letter. _Please still be alive._

His own expectations at her welcome varied from bitter admonishment and reprisal in the best case, and quiet rejection in the worst. He had forsaken people in his life for much smaller slights, and did not envision any better reaction to his outright desertion and stubborn subsequent silence. She herself had not been so forgiving in health, turning a cold shoulder whenever their disagreement over race or patient care became apparent, and he could not imagine this utter insult would be met with any more lenience on her part.

And of course she would be more than right to do so. Whereas she had risked her position and reputation to help him, a mere colleague, through his morphine addiction and keep it their secret, he had done little more than any doctor would have done in treatment of her infection; but as a pining suitor caring for his intented, or even just as a friend, his behavior had been downright unacceptable.

Jedidiah sighed. He fully deserved any treatment she deemed fit for him… if he made it on time. _Please still be alive._ That was all that mattered. If Life would grant him that one wish, he would pay it back a thousand-fold. He had to make amends. Help her heal from typhoid, of course, but that would not be enough. He must earn back her trust, her respect, and perhaps through this, one day, her love. Out of an impulse ingrained from wealth, he wanted to present her with a gift: something that would bring her joy, that would show her the true measure of his affection, and slowly make up for these weeks of neglect. But what?

He thought of the women he had loved before her: Nancy, his teenage sweetheart; Lisette; Eliza. Others who had come and gone, barely registering in the story of his life, barely remembered now. All the gifts he had bestowed upon them, in adoration, gratitude, or repentance. There had been many, the lavisher the greater the offence, and all these women had accepted them gladly, suddenly finding it much easier to forgive him in their newfound treasures, as he found it much easier to shower them in presents than to fully own up and repent for his mistakes.

Yet with Mary… this would never do. And even if it could just soothe a fraction of the abuse, he did not even know where to begin. All the typical presents he had resorted to seemed woefully inadequate for her. Their uncertain relationship complicated the matter further and made many simply inappropriate. Not to mention that at the moment, he was penniless, potentially nameless, and was coming to her an empty-handed beggar, both for her absolution and hospitality.

As he pondered this further, he realized with dismay that for all his admiration of her, his absolute infatuation while they worked together, and his everlasting regret since her departure, he did not truly know her.

What did he know of her interests, passions and pastimes before the war, before social justice and nursing called her to action? What had made her care so for Emancipation? Was it Christian charity, or had religion nothing to do with it? How many slaves had she even met, up in snowy Boston? Was her journey to Alexandria her first view of the South?

And before still… what of her family, her home? Had she grown up in the city or the country? What made her laugh, in days of peace? What made her dream, in days of youth? Was she one for fairy tales, wishing for Prince Charming upon a white horse, appearing to whisk her away to a life or riches and luxury?

Or did she crave adventure? Her husband had been a foreigner. Had he spoken fondly of the Vaterland, of Old Europe? Had she yearned to cross the ocean to see it? To travel further still, to the deserts of Arabia, the jungles of India, the oriental mysteries of Edo?

Or perhaps she would have been a scholar? With her intellect, eloquence and dedication to her craft, she fit the profile. How long had she studied? In school, or with a tutor? Which topics had she excelled at? Which bore her to tears or made her toss her book across the room in frustration?

Or had she been perfectly content, as a wife to a humble textile chemist, tending their home? Had they hoped and prayed for children to complete their family and accompany them into old age? Had they been blessed for a precious moment, but had this happiness cruelly taken away?

And what did she want now, before typhoid struck her down? What did she hope for herself, once war was over? Another chance at love and family? A second career as a teacher, or writer perhaps? Or to reinvent herself further still and take up another worthy cause, crusading on for Humanity's greater good?

Through all his interrogations, Jed caught himself thinking of Lisette. Not as a lover, no; that was forevermore in the past. He missed her intuition and emotional acuity. Her lack of filter, of Puritan prudishness, that he had found so captivating in Paris, and that taught him so much in not only dealing with others, patients and patrons alike, but also with himself, and facing what it was he truly wanted. He knew that in the few hours that Lisette had spent with Mary, that she had probably understood her better than he had in months. Lisette would have known immediately what it was that her heart yearned for, and would have told her so: maybe not as bluntly as she had grown able to be with him, but tactfully, and directly, buffering the impact with a soft smile and encouragement. Had Mary ever expressed her desire for him to have her portrait? Did she even have to, or was it crystal clear to Lisette from the first side-glance, the first blush at the mention of his name?

What made her see behind their stern façades, behind the veil of decorum, to the truth they hid and guarded? Her talent was to draw what the eye saw, yet her gift was to imbue it with her subject’s soul, its inner message.

He gazed intently at Mary’s smiling face, so vulnerable and unguarded on the page, yet still proud. _What_ _is your message, my dearest? What is it you want more than anything?_

And more importantly: _am I the one who can give it to you?_

As he looked into her soft eyes, so true to life, he finally saw that the answer was not fine silk, castles or diamonds. That it was not anything else money could buy. That it was not found in books or churches, on battlefields or overseas.

What she wanted, at the moment pencil had touched paper, was his presence: simply, honestly, without artifices or excuses. No more complications. No more hiding. Fully revealed to one another. Just as Lisette had drawn her.

 _Here I am,_ she welcomed him from the page. _Where are you?_

At the realization, Jed dropped his head. The shame of his delay in understanding her desire shred his soul, and he urged the train to speed up, or time to slow down. His lips uttered a prayer; not to God, but to the woman he now desperately begged for forgiveness, for another chance.

_Please let it still be so. Please let me know you, and try to be who you believe me to be._

_Please still be alive._

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday to the most prolific writer of the Mercy Street fandom! May your literary creativity never stop, in this universe or any other that inspires you!
> 
> This little one-shot-story had started with the relevant mind prompt “Jed ponders what to buy Mary for her birthday”, but the rambling questioning and context my brain sputtered out was much more in line with post-Season 2 Phoster canon than either of our Seasons 3 That Never Were. So this morphed into Jed's Guilt Trip To Boston, which we both agreed he greatly deserved for his terrible treatment of Mary in S2. Not as lighthearted, but hopefully still cathartic.
> 
> (This is why I doubt I could ever write a novel: it’ll be planned as a witty rom-com, and come out as angsty melodrama/Plato’s Dialogs)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and go read/like/comment middlemarch's works for the occasion!


End file.
